


Easy Way Out

by GetInMelanin



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Black!Reader - Freeform, Enhanced Reader, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feelings, First POV, First Person, Fluff, Heavy Angst, I have no idea how this happened, I'm excite, Jack Daniels, Maybe - Freeform, Mentions of alcohol, Mutation, POV Second Person, Protective Bucky, Reader Of Color - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Second POV, Smut, Smut and Angst, everyone loves good ole Jack!, help me, hurting, mentions of drinking, more tags will be added, mutant!reader, picture inspiration, powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetInMelanin/pseuds/GetInMelanin
Summary: He's left my door slightly ajar, a sliver of moonlight escaping the space created by the inch long crack, and that barely-there smell, the distinct metallic masculine scent synonymous with his presence - and my Blue Label Jack Daniel's - is stronger now and I feel a bit light-headed breathing it in.I already know what awaits me behind that door, but I'm not ready for the emotions steadily broiling up inside of me. Not ready for the sound of blood rushing past my ears as my heart beats hard and quick in my chest.I'm not ready to see him after so long.





	1. Heard You Call My Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thorohdamnson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorohdamnson/gifts).



> It was supposed to be a fucking picture inspiration...a short and sweet smutty piece...instead I got carried away with five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred ideas and now it's a fic. 
> 
> FML
> 
> Also the song inspiration behind this is Easy Way Out by Low Roar. Oh, how I LOVE them <3 <3
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy xx  
> P.S. I GRADUATED YESTERDAY!!!

Someone's in my apartment. 

I realise this the moment I carefully turn away from the door to face my cramped living room. I've only been gone for a good 35 minutes, a brisk evening walk in the biting cold to the small family store on the corner of the street, and because I live in a secure apartment building - a personal security code required to get past the large plexiglass door outside - and most of my neighbours are away visiting family for the holidays, I didn't feel the need to lock. Which confuses me, because when I turned the knob to push my way in, the fucking door was locked! 

Slowly, I back up against the wall and begin sidling to the left, leaning sideways - keeping my eyes ahead of me - and stretching my hand out to grab the baseball bat standing in the corner. I don't need it. With my genetic makeup and the rare blood coursing through my veins - I don't need it. But I wrap my fingers around its slim neck anyway, lifting it over my right shoulder and carrying it like a pro baseball player, preparing to swing just as hard if anything or anyone lunges out at me as I slowly inch my way around the corner, entering the kitchen. 

I do a quick scan of the place, brows furrowing in consternation at the disarray in front of me. A few appliances have been shifted about on the kitchen counter, including the electronic mixer and my stainless steel microwave, which has a light dent in the top. There's two pizza crusts and a half-eaten apple sitting on an abandoned plate near the sink, and my intruder has chucked an empty carton of orange juice in the trash, not bothering to shut the lid. Interestingly enough, nothing important, nor of value, seems to be missing... except a bottle of Jack, _my_ bottle of Jack. A limited edition Blue Label my father sent me two months ago for my birthday. Barely touched. And it's gone. _Fucking alcoholic thief._

I lower my weapon with an annoyed huff. 

The quick scope of my living room and kitchen has indicated that none of my valuables, including the rent money sitting undisturbed on my room divider, are gone. This doesn't make me any less uncomfortable; instead churning an altogether different wave of hesitance and unease in my stomach as I make my way to the bedroom, light notes of leather and gunpowder beginning to linger in the air. 

The short walk to my room suddenly feels like the longest journey of my life, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I struggle to gather enough saliva to swallow nervously as I pause outside the door. He's left it slightly ajar, a sliver of moonlight escaping the space created by the inch long crack, and that barely-there smell, the distinct metallic masculine scent synonymous with his presence - and my Blue Label Jack Daniel's - is stronger now and I feel a bit light-headed breathing it in. I already know what awaits me behind that door, but I'm not ready for the emotions steadily broiling up inside of me. Not ready for the sound of blood rushing past my ears as my heart beats hard and quick in my chest. I'm not ready to see him after so long.

But still, I take a deep breath, take in more of that foreboding but familiar smell, and push the door open, widening it slowly, gently. A part of me wants to snort bitterly at the gesture because even after all this time, wallowing in self-pity and feeling resentful, I still care enough not to startle him.

Instead, I freeze. Remain rooted to my spot beneath the doorway and stare in silent awe at the familiar stranger now taking up the length and breadth of my bed. He's naked, splayed across my sheets with his metal arm dangling over the foot of the bed. My Jack Daniels laying empty ( _dammit!_ ) within his metallic grasp next to a half full glass of gold amber on ice. I notice his jacket is also laying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Something, a picture?, peeking out beneath the discarded article of clothing. 

My eyes begin to travel up his gleaming arm, the intricate grooves and the bright red star on his muscular shoulder, pausing on the puckering flesh he hates so much before continuing across the broad width of his shoulders, the wings of his shoulder blades etched perfectly with defined lines and curves of muscle hiding beneath his skin. Next, I follow the deep vertical line carved down the center of his back, where it rises and then falls in subtle curves as my gaze moves lower, releasing air bottled up in my lungs from parted lips when I reach the base of his spine where it tapers off and count two perfect dimples perforating his lower back. I know, I should probably just end it right there, this curious optic reacquaintance with his body. But it proves difficult when he shifts his hips a little to the side and the covers fall halfway down his ass. My breath lurches. Memories come rushing over me and I try hard not to lose my balance when I reach out to balance myself against the door frame as I begin to remember everything. 

How he could render me helpless just by looking at me with those ravenous blue eyes. Leave me speechless, breathless when his muscles flexed and strained as he vigorously thrust himself inside of me over and over and over again. His hungry grunts, the cold chrome of his arm wrapped around my body, holding me flush against his chest - night upon glorious night of mind-bending passion and pleasure, my failing to comprehend anything but the sound of me calling out to him repeatedly as he wound and wove me tight in between his metal fingers. 

I could no longer seperate weeks from months. Grew used to his large stature filling my tiny kitchen, the perpetual tension shifting beneath the golden glow of his skin when pressing pliant cheek to hardened chest, the sunlight filtering through the blinds as we lay in the afterglow of rough, hasty sex - his eyes darting down to nervously watch my fingers trace over the scar border soldering man to machine - I was always in awe. Always marvelling at the marred beauty of him, wondering if he could be anymore beautiful than this. What we shared was as explosive and exciting as it was dangerously addictive. And we got high off one another, never growing tired of groping hands and tenderly bruised skin, teeth-clattering kisses and broken household objects. 

Or at least that's what I thought, until I came home from work one day to find him gone. 

Not a single trace of him left behind, not even a strand of hair in one of my hairbrushes. He never had much to begin with, but he'd cleared out so meticulously well, so thoroughly, he could've taken my sofa with him. 

It was as though he was never here. Never existed. And for three months I would  come home to sit in the screaming silence of my apartment, so large and so empty without him, pining for a man who didn't want me to know too much about his painful past. And yet, he knew - knows so much about me. About my... abilities.

My gaze shifts back to the photo laying on the floor. It's a vintage, sepia polaroid - something that looks like it fluttered straight from a 1940s silver screen movie and onto the jacket occupying my floor. Quietly, carefully, my legs turning from lead to jelly, I tip-toe across the room, stoop low to swipe it off the floor to take a closer look at the creased photograph.

Two men fill the white space and I recognise the one on the right as Bucky, younger, cleaner. Happier. The blonde haired man on the left needs no introduction - that's Steve Rogers. _Captain America_ , Bucky's best friend. 

A man who, just like Bucky, fell head first into ice and woke up later not knowing where he was. That's as far as their similarities go, because before waking from his decades long slumber, Steve resembled something of a memorable martry while Bucky became a mindless murderer. His mind repeatedy wiped and formatted until the only thing recognised was his military instincts and servitude to his superiors, burnt into his mind before and after he fell from a train.

"He said he'd be with me 'til the end o' the line."

I gasp sharply and nearly jump out of my skin at the deep rumble of Bucky's voice suddenly breaking the heavy silence of my bedroom. My feet instinctively carry me backwards, away from the threat, not realising that I'm right at the corner edge of my bed while simultaneously tripping over the square bottle of Jack. I lose my footing and brace myself for the moment where my butt hits the floor with a dull thud.

Except it never does.

Bucky, still on his stomach, is holding his upper body up with his right arm, leveraging himself as he leans over in my direction - his cybernetic arm stretching out to wrap his hand around my right wrist. A split second passes, a miniscule moment in which our eyes connect, before the mechanism of his arm begins to click and whirr as he pulls me up and towards the bed with no effort whatsoever, bouncing softly as I land with a plop on the mattress. I stare hard at my teal coloured nails, occupy myself with running the pad of my thumb over each finernail in search of a chip that might need filing; try not to squirm from the intense yet sullen glare I can see him giving me out the corner of my eye. Things remain that way for well over a minute, Bucky now sitting up with the cool sheets pooling around his lean waist as he continues this careful analysis of my face. It's the longest, most awkward minute of my life.

I risk a glimpse down on the space between us, swallow the lump threatening to rise in my throat when I realise he's still holding my wrist.

Clearing my throat, I open my mouth to ask, "what are you doing here? How did you even get past the front door?"

It's then that he pulls his hand away from, huffs in resignation and exhaustion as I listen to him run his metal hand along the beard shadowing his cheek and up into his hair. Looking for an answer I suppose. One that'll hurt me the least.

"I had to get away." _Well, that's reassuring_ , I think sarcastically. 

"Get away?" I turn my head slightly, still not looking at him. "From what?"

Bucky falls silent, and that's when I know he's lying. Hiding something, and I can't help but feel a little insecure. If it's not a case of what, then perhaps, it's a case of _who_.

"From me? Is that what you mean?" I ask. Suddenly I can feel myself working up a nice angry lather, 5 months worth of bottled emotins beginning to shake up a storm within me. He reverts back to doing that thing again, that thing where he stares hard at me and furrows his dusky eyebrows, his wide, plump lips pulling down into a critical frown.

"You're still alone," he says, almost disapprovingly, and it's enough to set me off as I angrily whip my head up to look him dead in the eyes as I confront him. Confess to him.

"Is that all you can think about? That I'm still living here alone, just as you left me? Does that please you? Bucky, for nine months I opened up my home to you, trusted you with more than just my money and personal belongings. I took you in when you had no where to go, no one to talk to; put up with your volatile temperament and cold sweat nightmares."

I fed you, bathed you, comforted you and for what? The sound of my voice echoing around an unoccupied apartment? I gave you everything - I gave you me - only for my dumbass to walk in and find you'd somehow managed to steal from me, without having stolen anything at all!" 

I'm shaking now, buzzing, clutching the sheets in my hand as hot tears of anger and frustration roll over my cheeks. My concentration has lapsed and I can feel myself beginning to seperate from my body. That rare blood I mentioned before is now beginning to boil, the strands of X-genetic DNA bonding with bright sparks and fiery little cracks of electricity. She's stirring, moving her stiff, dormant bones and flexing her deadly magic fingers. The room is spinning, Bucky and everything else around me is a blurry mess of colours bleeding into one another. I can feel _her_ beginning to brush her ancient old fingers up my spine - it pleasantly burns - slowly rub her glowing hands along my tired shoulders - and it feels so good. So, _so_ right! I've never really managed to get a reign over her, thus making it easy for me to lean towards my mutation when she calls my name. My eyes feel warmer in their sockets, and I know they're glowing that bright, ominous gold.

Then, I hear something, someone call my name. A male voice. Bucky? _Yes_. Yes, it's definitely Bucky. He's saying something, telling me to... to breathe. So I do. Swallow big gulps of air as I feed my body the oxygen it had been craving when my mutant had me clutched by the throat.

"Stay with me. Stay with me." 

His voice is soothing, so is his left hand cupping my cheek. Anchoring me. Shooting out to hold me steady just as he'd done earlier on - reaching out to keep me from falling.

My eyes begin to cool and I can feel the static electric currents that were searing beneth my skin begin to die down. She's going back to sleep. Things begin to refocus and the first thing I see is Bucky's eyes. That tempestuous blue-grey. "Bucky?" 

I think I see relief washing over his face, it's hard to tell because I nearly knock myself out on his polished arm as I slump forward - exhausted. Bucky merely draws me in and I curl into his warmth. The last thing I register before passing out is Bucky's lips pressed longingly to the crown of my head, resting his stubbly cheek against my forehead as he rocks back and forth whispering, "It's okay, doll. I'm here now, I'm here."


	2. While I'm Passing Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! New update, yaaay!! This has been sitting in my documents since posting the very first chapter, but because I want to write this fic seamlessly without confusing you or having to go back and fix shit, which will only delay the story's progression, I had to iron out a few kinks (with a generous amount of help courtesy of ErisJade16).
> 
> So sit back and ENJOY xx

I hiss softly, wince at the intense light piercing through the lace curtain while I move my legs and slowly open my eyes. Another wince, a disapproving groan. Fuck the sun, honestly. But it's warm, washing over my face and swathing my body in its booming golden glow as I roll myself onto my back, the bed covers getting caught beneath one side of my body. 

A glint of silver catches the light and I pause. 

"Bucky?" I call out, squinting in his general direction in an effort to make out his large frame across the room. I can't see him clearly, actually I can't see anything more than a meter or two ahead of me, my eyes are blurry and still burning from last night - but I know he's in here somewhere. Can bet my top dollar he dragged one of the chairs in my kitchen down the hallway and into my bedroom. Stayed up all night watching.

I'm answered by silence, only hearing the gentle humming of the gears in his arm and the metal plates shifting as he pushes to his feet from the darkest part of my room. He's moving, his form illuminating when he steps forward into the beam of morning brightness cutting through pitch black and takes lumbering strides towards the bed. I'm now busy fussing with the heavy duvet tucked beneath me, succeeding a little when I manage to free my shoulder with a triumphant grunt. It's enough for me to pull my arm from the covers to sit up and shuffle backwards to rest against the headboard just as the bed dips beneath the weight of Bucky, who's now occupying in the space next to my legs. He holds his human arm out, a glass of water materialising from the blurry haze tunneling my vision.

"Thank you," I murmur, wrapping my fingers around the cool glass and drawing in a quiet breath when I touch the pads of my fingertips along the back of his warm knuckles. 

Warm. The one thing that sticks in my mind as I recount the events of the previous night in my mind.

James Barnes, in my room - my apartment. 

I wasn't prepared - there was no way I could've been prepared - to see him glorious and naked, _there_ , splayed on my bed. That silky, chestnut-brown hair tossled around his head and neck, perfectly shaped cybernetic arm hanging carelessly above the floor with the bottle of bourbon a few inches from his reach. I couldn't even see his face as it was turned away from me, but months of laying to him - the one time I forced myself to wake up at 04:00am just to catch a glimpse of him sleeping somewhat peacefully - lead me to believe, no, actually, to _know_ that he was still as devastatingly beautiful as ever. 

And it was exactly that - disappearing and then reappearing, just fucking laying there half-conscious but fully aware of his surroundings, looking so goddamn breathtaking and tempting; awakening feelings I foolishly thought had died with our fire - which set me off. I didn't expect to be so upset, but Bucky materialising out of no where to enter my home, after weeks upon weeks of not hearing from him after having left me without so much as a goodbye note - I just... snapped. 

_You're still alone._

I put him in his place, gave him a piece of my mind and allowed the moment to escalate when it shouldn't have. Not to that extent. But there are moments, very rare moments, in which I have no control. The thin thread of temperement creaking, straining to keep things together, eventually running out and snapping. It's become a chink in my armour that I've come to accept, something the other part of me loves to exploit when given the chance. When I'm angry. Or too drunk. Sometimes when I least expect it and I find myself hovering three inches off the ground, literally buzzing from excitement or happiness. Unpredictability is what keeps me on my toes, acutely aware of the scratching that goes on in the back of my head, building defences and reinforcing them with more barriers because I can't risk losing control. Handing myself over to her. 

Dziva. 

My mutation. Well, sort of.

She's more of an entity that's inhabited my being. An ancient African goddess who once roamed the Mashonaland mountains, worshipped and revered by men and women of all tribes and their denominations. A queen, beautiful in her ways and deeply embedded in the warm soil of her African heritage - and I just happen to be her descendant. One of a select few caught on the boughs of a large and complicated family tree, criss-crossed with long generational bloodlines that stretch further than the inception of pyramids - touched by her illustrious magic. 

She's certainly something to behold. She also gives me a headache straight from hell, courtesy of Satan himself.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, voice low and calm as though he's trying not to rile me up again. Bless him.

"I'm okay, my head is still hammering like a stubborn hangover but... " I give a noncommital shrug, raise the glass to my lips and take greedy gulps of water, slipping over my tongue and palate to soothe the dry itchiness in the back of my throat. Some of it dribbles past the corner of my lips and slides down my chin. Now that he's sitting within an arm's reach of me, I can see Bucky. How his icy eyes trail the wet path from my dry lips, cascading down my skin and finally dripping onto my cotton bed covers. A satisfied sigh slips past my lips once I'm done draining every last refreshing drop of water, lowering the glass so it rests in my lap. "Was it last night?" He raises his gaze to look at me curiously. "I mean, did I break anything? Send shit flying across the room? Launch the bottle of my limited edition, blue label Jack Daniel's - which wasn't yours for consumption - from the floor to whack you over the head?"

Bucky's lip quirk into the miniscule beginnings of a smile, his eyes never leaving me when he reaches over to pry the empty glass from my tightly gripping fingers while he mulls over his response. My breathing picks up a fraction and I feel something akin to unease settling in my stomach. _Oh no_ , I think. I probably set his clothes on fire. Or I really _did_  send the hefty glass bottle of Jack hurtling towards him. My internalised thoughts must be reflected on my face however, because Bucky quickly shakes his head no before asking, "when did you first discover you were..." He quietens, lets the sentence linger in the air, partially because he thinks my restraint on Dziva equates to a restraint on discussing her. The other part being trust hee doesn't know what to call this deity-possession of my body.

"-different?" I finish off, hearing the carefree cadence of the goddess still whispering, beckoning me closer so she can press her palms into my temple and reign over me. He nods again, purses his lips so I can continue and that's when it dawns on me: although Bucky is aware of who I am, and although we've done more than just share this apartment and its utilities for more than half a year, I've never fully divulged the nature of my circumstances to him - but only because he's never really thought to ask. The same way I'm aware of who James Buchanan Barnes - The Winter Soldier - is and where he comes from, but I'll never ask him to reveal his total body count. "Honestly, she's been around all my life, creeping around and poking at the deepest, darkest parts of me I wasn't aware even existed. I've just tried to keep her as quiet as she'll allow." 

He nods again, remains silent while the information runs through his mind and settles into the millions of neurons webbing and weaving in his brain.  I rake my teeth over my lower lip, try to focus on his grainy form before directing my attention to a spot on the wall behind him, using the moment to comb through the annals of my memories before finally speaking. "My first real encounter, I was young - 15 or 16 if my memory serves me right. Scared the shit out of me and my friend hours after her parents left the house in our possession."

I recall how we chose to fill the spaces of boredom and slow-ticking time with an expiremental molotov cocktail of bourbon, dry white wine, banana schnapps and vodka - the combination taking shape with quarter cup measurements of each in a large sodapop bottle. 

We figured we could get away with it, tampering with the alcohol by literally watering down the potency of the vodka and bourbon, after which we found ourselves sprawled on her bed exchanging nervous stares - mine becoming an affronted glare when the heifer goaded me into going first.

"I told her, 'from here on out, we're in this together,'" I wistfully reminisce. My declaration of friendship and loyalty sealed the deal with a fist bump before raising the bottle to my lips and taking a cautious sip. I grimace. "It tasted like horse shit, Buck. The schnapps had curdled in the bourbon and I almost blew chunks. 

"The second time I attempted to take a sip, that traitorous witch tipped the bottle and I wound up downing three large, lumpy, disgusting gulps of bitter trash." I wince then laugh when I look to find Bucky donning the most ridiculous, indescribable expression on his face. It teeters between disgusted and disturbed, his upper lip curled and his eyebrows pinched together so tight, I fear he may be stuck that way forever. "About 5 minutes in, I started feeling sick. Like the banana schnapps was fighting its way back out."

I thought the burning sensation bubbling in my gut and the warm pins-and-needles prickling my fingertips - the heat blooming in my chest and causing my head to spin - were just symptoms of the alcohol. And it was, to some extent.

But when my eyes began to sting something fierce and my vision fizzled into pitch black darkness, I knew something was wrong. Could feel it. Suddenly bright sparks exploded brilliantly gold and hot to light up my sight. My ears were ringing, a loud and long shriek resounding in the dark and hollowed areas of my mind - hollow because another entity, something or someone awesome and powerful - was beginning to force his/her/its way into the folds of my brain. My skin pockmarked with pinpricks of fire, blazing but stinging like a thousand little red ants rioting beneath my epidermis, driving me closer and closer to the edge of insanity. 

It was in that moment I thought I would die. Or explode. 

Pressure building at the base of my skull and threading through blood vessels and neural pathways to ignite in my temples, blood pumping faster and harder than I believed my heart could handle. I couldn't breathe, couldn't see or think past the cacophony of screams and voices and cries swirling around my head - I think I was screaming myself. I couldn't tell, unable to seperate my voice from hers. 

I was a pressure cooker - the need to release broiling heat, fire and steam - to explode -intense and lightning hot as the air around us became electric. It crackled with sweltering heat and static shocks, building higher and higher, squeezing, pressing, forcing its way out until...

"... the windows imploded."

A loud ear-splitting sound, tiny pieces of glittering glass shattering and resounding around the room. Sharp flecks glinting as the window frames splintered and sent glass scattering in about a hundred different directions. With no place to hide, my friend merely threw herself to the floor, arms wrapped around her head as we were pelted with glass ricocheting off the walls, plaster and other debris flying all over.

"That was only the beginning." I say, finally coming back to the present to find a stoic faced Bucky looking at me with his piercing blue eyes. "You know what's funny? Dziva is supposed to be 'nice, caring and compassionate'," I say with a flourish of air quotes, emphasising the fallacy of a character synopsis I once read on my African ancestor. But in this body, this vessel in which she's chosen to flex her fingers, Dziva is anything but - woe betide anyone who incurs her displeasure. "If only they knew. 

"Anyway, long story short - I was a teen when she first showed up. My friend, or rather more appropriately, my _former_ friend never spoke to me again." Her parents reckoned I was a bad influence, and I was viewed as the 'freak next door' by the entire neighbourhood and their dogs. "So, I moved."

Bucky shakes his head and looks down into the open palm of his metal hand, furrows his thick brows and ruins his face with a frown. "Cunts."

"Damn straight," I reply with a scoff.

After the alcohol debacle and another more public incident that involved my father, a closed-minded dickhead and his shiny red sports car that seemed to spontaneously combust while sitting in the parking lot, I refused to unlatch the cage door allowing her to fit the confines of my body, much to her fickle displeasure. And she is _very_ fickle. Sometimes hot, sometimes cold; quiet and serenely sleeping then restlessly loud, banging at my ribs and shaking within my skull with her shrill protests.

The only consistency that remains is her penchant for destruction, fucking things up without warning. Taking an inch and morphing it into a mile. However, contrary to whatever ill impressions I've painted of her, I don't dislike this phenom. She's offered an odd sense of comfort when I need it and I find her greatly intriguing, exciting even. She keeps me company on most days, which used to be quiet and lonely until a couple hours ago, and aside from the mini-episode last night, it's been a long while since she's resurfaced to flex her magical muscle. And I must confess - although I'm very aware of her love for big bangs and pyrotechincs, I'm not familiar with the entirety of Dziva's full potential. Which is why I'm loathe to imagine what would happen should the city become a playground in which to exercise the full force of her ancestral wrath. 

There are times though, where I'm a little curious and my intrigue, maybe even boredom, pique my interest and I can feel her itching and writhing in the depths of my mind, coursing magma-hot through my veins. In those moments I let her out, but only just. My brown skin will shift and shimmer beneath the translucense of sparkling gold scaling the full height of me. Traversing up the length of my arms and legs, over my torso and fading towards my chest to become brown skinned once more. My eyes flicker and then glow, fully engulfed by captivating yellow-orange flames flaring at the corners.

My favourite attribute, however, are her tribal marks; thick black tattoos that curve and line my stomach from below the waistband of my pants to slant out and curve symmetrically on either side of my stomach, like simple flames licking gold-filmed skin. More lines trace themselves along my chest, capping shoulders and dancing across my back. They swirl, slant and fan out, some joining and ending with arrow tipped flourishes.

I reckon they look pretty badass.

I breathe out a melancholy sigh, focus my attention on my metal armed companion, who has been so quiet and attentive. 5 months since he last occupied - took up two-thirds of - the space of my bed, but he looks so different. 

There's a dull lustre in the blue pits of his eyes, tension in the corners of the wide fullness of his lips; his shoulders and the clenched fist of his flesh hand. He's changed so much, his demeanour, that is. It's more... guarded. Weary and tired, and I find myself wondering what 5 months could possibly do to him that 9 plus decades already hasn't. Probably not much, but the prominence of fatigue shadowing his eyes causes me to pause and rethink - to soften my jilted edges as I draw a deep breath and speak.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" I ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheew!! Now that I've got y'all up to speed with the lead's background, we can finally start moving forward. Buckle up, it's gonna get nasty!!
> 
> Quick African mythology lesson: Dziva is a moody creator goddess who was worshipped by those residing in the Mashonaland regions of Zimbabwe. 
> 
> Unfortunately there's very little information about her online, except that she can be a nice and compassionate just as easily as she can become your worst nightmare. 
> 
> Piss her off and you may find yourself wishing you'd never been born lol.
> 
> Don't forget to comment and kudos you wonderful, awesome, beautiful people =)
> 
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to comment and kudos, if you don't, Bucky is gonna use all your SheaMoisture and then you're gonna be fucked!!!
> 
> Peace and Bacon Grease xx


End file.
